


Fireworks

by MJHajost



Category: Emergency! (TV 1972)
Genre: Set in the E! universe but uses original characters, Some graphic descriptions, please do not post to other sites
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:08:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24888895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MJHajost/pseuds/MJHajost
Summary: They are NOT just pretty lights in the sky.
Kudos: 14





	Fireworks

Later, when he could process what he had seen, what he remembered most was the silence. Not the blood—there had actually been much less than he might have thought. Nor the acrid smell of cordite and burned cardboard. Not even the sight of the ten-year-old with a piece of shrapnel protruding from his left eye.

It was the silence. No one was screaming—perhaps they had been when the unthinkable occurred, there was no way for him to know. And perhaps the child had screamed when the bit of metal from the exploding can had sailed into his eye.

But by the time the fire department and paramedics had arrived, about the only sounds were the quiet voices of the police officers on scene, and the small crowd of onlookers who had gathered, gawkers at the horrific scene.

The first thing Ted “Dutch” Masters saw as they pulled up was the headless body. Well, virtually headless—there was little left above the nose. The deceased lay in the middle of the street, uncovered despite the fact that probably most of the officials there would have preferred that. It lay on its stomach—there was almost no face to call it face down. Bits and pieces of brain matter lay splattered in the gutter and along the curb, and it was all Dutch could do to keep his lunch in place. As it was, he made a choking sound as he forced the bile down.

“Jesus Christ.” His partner, in the driver’s seat, made a similar gagging sound.

Dutch forced himself to look away, toward a small group on the front lawn, huddled around a small figure now seated. “Over there,” he managed to say, pointing. He slid out of the cab mechanically, grabbing the trauma bag and following Gary across the parkway and sidewalk. The people parted to let them in, and he knelt next to the child. The boy was holding his hands over his injured eye, but the other eye was closed, and tears leaked from it. A woman in her early forties squatted beside him, and though quite pale and shaking, she spoke softly to the boy.

“The paramedics are going to take good care of you, Georgie,” she said as Gary dropped to the boy’s other side.

Dutch forced a smile. “Hey, Georgie, I’m Dutch and the other guy is my partner, Gary.” He looked at the woman, raising his eyebrows in a question. “Mother?” he mouthed. She nodded. “Your mom is right, we’re gonna take good care of you.” He touched the boy’s knee. “We’re gonna need to see that eye, though, buddy. You think my partner can take a look?”

“No!” shouted Georgie. “Don’t touch it!”

Dutch pressed lightly on Georgie’s knee. “Nobody’s gonna touch it, Georgie. I promise. We just want to look at it. I promise, nobody will touch it, okay?” His voice was low and calm and reassuring.

“No! Don’t touch me!”

Dutch glanced at Gary and then the mother.

“Georgie, honey, just let them see it okay? I won’t let them touch it.” Her voice trembled, and Dutch marveled at her composure. She put a hand on Georgie’s, and he struggled briefly with her.

“It’s all right,” Dutch told her. “Let him be.” He turned to Gary for help.

Gary put down the cotton padding and gauze he’d been gathering and put a hand on Georgie’s shoulder. “Georgie,” he said, “we need for you to be a brave man, okay? Think you can be brave for about ten seconds so we can see what happened to your eye there?”

Georgie seemed to think about that idea, and finally, cautiously, he lowered his hands and the men got their first look at the injury. Dutch blinked reflexively and Gary leaned in for a closer look. A small piece of metal was sticking out of the inside edge of the child’s eye. The lid was up, seemingly held in place by the shard. There was a small amount of blood. Gary was sure the boy would lose the eye, but he said nothing other than, “Georgie, awesome—that was incredibly brave of you. Thanks, buddy.” Surreptitiously, he took the mother’s hands and placed them on top of Georgie’s to prevent him from trying to cover his eyes again. “We’ll need to bandage them,” he said very softly.

Dutch, meanwhile, had contacted the hospital to update them on the patient. “Does he have any allergies to any medication?” he asked, and relaying her negative response.

Gary continued talking quietly to Georgie, explaining what he was doing as he measured his blood pressure and counted his pulse and respirations. He didn’t really need the information—it was more a way of keeping the child calm and occupied while they prepared to transport him. With the mother’s permission, he prepared an IV so that they could administer a mild sedative. Georgie flinched at the prick of the needle, but Gary was pretty good at painless sticks so there were no additional hysterics. Andy Starks and Jeff Grady had rolled over the gurney, and soon the boy was loaded and strapped in, ready for the ride to the hospital.

“Why don’t you ride with me,” Gary told the mother, “and you can help keep him calm on the way in.”

She climbed into the back of the ambulance with him and settled herself in a jump seat near the door while Gary scrambled around her and sat down near the head of the gurney. The bed rested in an upright position so that Georgie was sitting up, rather than lying down, and the boy kept his hands firmly over his bandaged eyes. Gary rested a hand on Georgie’s knee for the entire ride, talking to him the entire time, finally getting him to laugh by telling him about the funny lady who had once knocked his partner off a fire escape.

Dutch pulled the ambulance up to the ER doors, and Gary and the boy’s mother clambered out. She stepped aside as the two paramedics slid the gurney out, and then followed alongside as they wheeled it inside and into the exam cubicle where the nurse directed them. They lifted the boy onto the bed in the room, and after he was situated, Dutch tapped him again on the knee. “Take care, Georgie.” He nodded to Georgie’s mother as she thanked them, and he and Gary departed, taking their gurney with them.

They made it as far as the nurse’s desk before Gary made Dutch stop. “Be right back,” he muttered, and headed swiftly for the bathroom at the end of the hall. Dutch watched him go, knowing why his partner had taken off like that and feeling exactly the same.

“What’s with your partner?”

Dutch turned. Dixie McCall had come up behind him and was half-smiling as she followed Gary’s progress.

“If he’s feeling anything like me, it’s a bad reaction to the scene we just came from,” he told her. The memory of the mutilated body rose unbidden and he once again forced down rising nausea.

Dixie looked at him—he’d suddenly gone very pale.

“Come on, I’ll buy you a cup of coffee,” she suggested.

He shook his head. “Couldn’t keep it down, but thanks, anyhow.” He took a careful breath, saw that he was not going to throw up, and relaxed fractionally.

Gary came striding down the hall, himself pale but composed. “Shall we go?”

“You all right?” Dutch asked.

“About as all right as I’m gonna get. Let’s get going. Hey, Dix.”

They departed with their gurney, and the scene caught up with Dutch once more as they arrived back at the station house. The rest of the crew, who had also been at the scene, were just as shaken, and it was a very subdued group that sat down for supper. To no one’s surprise, appetites were in abeyance. Andy, who had been in charge of the meal, was not offended as most of the food found its way back into the fridge when they cleaned up.

The rest of the evening was spent with all of them on edge, waiting for the tones to send them out to another call to a fireworks mishap. But the gods seemed to have decided that they had suffered enough, and the evening remained quiet.

As they climbed into their bunks, Jeff Grady spoke for them all. “I used to like the Fourth of July,” he muttered. “Fuck it, now.”

Dutch’s stomach rolled over and he lurched into the latrine. Though there was almost nothing in his stomach, once he started retching it was several minutes before he stopped. He stumbled back to his bunk after washing his face and rinsing his mouth. “If there’s a god,” he muttered, “we will not get called out tonight.”

A pillow hit him in the face. “And if that prayer gets us called to a five-alarmer, you’ve got latrine duty for the next month of shifts. Go to sleep.”

The release of tension was palpable, and as the laughter died down, the men drifted off to sleep, mercifully undisturbed by alarms or nightmares.

<><><><><><><>

_Author’s note: This is based on an actual incident that took place in the town where I lived several years ago. While a child wasn’t injured, a man was killed when he bent over a rocket to see why it hadn’t shot up like it was supposed to do. And his friends panicked and raced to dispose of the evidence and then left the state. They were ultimately found and wound up in more trouble for leaving the scene and attempting to destroy evidence than they would have been for the illegal fireworks. PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE be careful if you plan on using fireworks this year. With COVID-19 cancelling professional shows across the country, thousands of amateurs will be playing with these very dangerous devices. Don’t become a casualty for the sake of a few bright lights in the sky. And don’t put rescue personnel in the position of having to deal with your injuries and trauma, because your trauma could easily become theirs._


End file.
